POE TASTE IN LITERATURE: A 520 DAY CRACKFIC
by BinaryTales
Summary: There are two reasons that Edward and Roy were willing to risk humiliation by performing a dramatic reading of a famous Gothic poem: to raise money for charity, and to save themselves from bodily harm if they failed to show up. Roy and Ed give a 'raven' the bird in this one-shot comedy for 5/20 day


"POE" TASTE IN LITERATURE: A 5/20 DAY CRACKFIC

By The Binary Alchemist, 2015

 _Author's Note: This takes place in the fan-fictional world of Nochick Fic's Bishonen Justice League—an all male yaoi crack fic universe. I am so grateful she lets me play in this literary word and am proud to dedicate this travesty of 19_ _th_ _century literature to her!_

 _Apologies to the late Edgar A. Poe…and to the creators of FMA and Ouran High School Host Club, respectively. This is obviously a parody…and I am definitely not receiving any profit from this other than the fun of writing bad poetry and crack fiction…._

"Remind me how I let you talk me into this, Ed."

"Blowjobs and chocolate. Same as always."

Roy glanced down at his costume. "If I have to go on stage in _this_ , it's going to take the muscle power of Alex Armstrong to put your jaw back in alignment when I'm done with you. And those truffles better be no less than 68% cacao or it's no deal."

Ed threw up his hands in disgust. "Hey, I gave you my word, right? It's for _charity_ , goddamn it! You _know_ I don't wanna do this. I'd rather get a prostrate exam with a rusty can opener than read poetry—"

"—unless it's some nasty limerick that rhymes 'Resembool' with 'my big tool'—"

"—shut up! Look, Roy," he sighed heavily, "This is a _worthy cause—"_

"—the _Honey Haninozuka Build-a-Bunny Workshop Fund_? Since when, Ed?"

Ed shuddered. "Have you _seen_ how nasty that little asshole can get if something happens to that stupid stuffed rabbit of his? I told him to 'man up', and the fucker had that big ape cousin of his—that Mori dude-shove my head in the crapper and then he proceeded to mop the goddamn dojo floor with my hair! If he thinks underprivileged 'lovely little items' need a fund for plushies, I'm gonna keep my mouth shut and go along with it. "

"I've never had any issues with Mori Haninozuka," Roy shrugged.

"Yeah. You two are cut out of the same damned cloth—only he's better _hung_."

"And how the HELL would you-"A red light began to flash above their heads. "Shit. Don't think we're not going to have this out once this travesty is over." He glared at his reflection in the dressing room mirror. "I look like hell, don't I?"

"You're an _allegorical_ figure, Roy. Besides," Ed tossed him a spiteful grin, "If that freak Sebastian Michaelis says it's accurate, I'd take his word for it."

"Great. I'll pencil his name on my list of people who need an ass kicking when this is over—right under _yours_. Let's get this over with…."

###

 _"Gentlemen, please welcome Alex Louis Armstrong!"_

The stage was awash with rosy lights, generated not by the effects director, but from the guest emcee himself. It was as if his massive head, polished to a chrome-like brilliance, was some weird sort of light source and he was attracting uncanny pink fireflies that zoomed and sparkled around the stage.

" _POETRY!"_ The barrel chest sucked in such a deep breath that the red velvet curtains of the Semeopolis Civic Center flapped in response. "POETRY! THE MUSIC OF THE SOUL, THE VERY BREATH OF THE COSMOS! THE SPLENDID CADENCE OF RHYME AND METER, THE INTRICATE CRAFTING OF WORDS AND IMAGERY! THE ART OF POETRY HAS BEEN A PASSION OF THE ARMSTRONG CLAN FOR GENERATIONS! WHY, WHEN I WAS BUT A TINY TOT, I BEGAN COMPOSING MY OWN LITTLE NURSERY RHYMES, INCLUDING SUCH MODERN CLASSICS AS "HUBBA RUB RUB, THREE MEN IN A HOT TUB" AND "JACK AND BILL WENT DOWN ON THE HILL"-

"If I believed in a god,"Roy muttered softly, "I'd pray for amnesia. We're actually back home in bed, right?"

Ed nodded in sympathy. "We will be, I promise. We just gotta get past this gig. Soon as that gasbag shuts his yap, we'll be on."

"—AND WHEN I WAS A TENDER YOUTH OF SIXTEEN, I PENNED MY FIRST EVER VOLUME OF FABLES, 'JACKING OFF THE GIANT'S BEANSTALK AND OTHER ONE- FISTED TALES"-"

"I'm bleeding from my ears, Ed. I can tell. My brain just threw up and I'm going to die." There was a whimper from the mask Roy had pulled over his head. "It's getting dark, Ed. Hold my hand, will you? I'm not ready to die yet—wait! What's that bright light?"

"It's our _cue_ , moron. Pull yourself together." Ed gave his lover a shove towards the steps to where Roy would be seated at the beginning of the scene above the stage. Ed shrugged on a velvet smoking jacket and a prop book of 19th century poetry and hurried onto the darkened stage.

" _Uhhh…lights, please?"_

A hush fell over the audience as the curtains rolled back, revealing a pensive Edward Elric in a vintage 1800's costume and a ruffled shirt, open to the waist. " _The pipe!"_ a stagehand hissed from the wings. " _You're supposed to be puffing on a pipe!"_

"I think there's gonna be enough innuendo in this skit without me sucking on _anything_ that won't buy me dinner first, okay?" Ed shot back, ignoring the audience. Reaching for the cut crystal decanter on the writing desk, he splashed a hefty measure in the glass at his elbow and tossed it back. He scowled towards the wings. " _Iced tea? What is this shit?_ It's supposed to be—what—1845? Aren't I supposed to be some kind of depressed loser or something? You think I'm gonna be sipping _tea_? _I want the hard stuff!"_

From the darkness above the stage echoed the cool sarcasm of Roy Mustang: " _I can arrange that."_ The audience snickered. Ed's face reddened. Grabbing the empty meerschaum pipe, he jammed it into the side of his mouth. "Nice to suck on _something_ that doesn't talk back for once," he commented drolly before flapping open the leather bound prop volume on the desk in front of him.

"The Cravin'. A poem by Eager Allen Poe. _Ahem_!"

" _Once upon a midnight stormy, I was lonely, drunk and horny_

 _Flipping through the pages of collected pornographic lore_

 _As I sat there, gently fapping, suddenly I heard a tapping_

 _Just like someone gently rapping—rapping at my study door_

" _Tis that asshole debt collector, rapping at my study door._

 _Only this and nothing more."_

 _Well I do recall the day—it was the twentieth of May_

 _A day when fantasies did play within my thoughts and through my core-_

 _Fierce within me was an urgin'—fierce, tho' I was still a virgin_

 _Still unknown the thrust and surgin' that could breach my nether door_

 _For that strange and wondrous breaching of my backside's nether door_

 _Thrusts I knew I would adore."_

Ed spit out the meerschaum, confronting the audience. " _Really?_ You mean somebody actually got _paid_ to write this shit?"

The voice from the proscenium arch above his head called down, "He died of drink and depression on a dark and stormy night—which is _mild_ compared to what Honey and Mori Haninozuka will do to you if we don't finish this."

From the wings, stage right, Alex Armstrong was wiping his eyes, deeply moved. "Ahhh….the _classics!"_ he sighed.

From the wings, stage left, Mori Haninozuka cracked his knuckles and looked menacing.

From center stage, Ed shook his head in disbelief and carried on…..

" _Safe within my book-lined haven, half undressed and still unshaven_

 _Far too shy to venture out where late spring fog rose soft and thick—_

 _Down to the pub where eager men could school me in the ways of sin_

 _Had I the nerve to let one in—or just stay home and wax my wick?_

 _I asked aloud, "should I get laid?" My poor pulse hammered double-quick!_

 _A Phantom answered—"_

"SUCK MY DICK!"

A spotlight swung up to the proscenium arch to capture Roy Mustang in all his ghastly feathered glory. A full squadron of vultures must have been plucked naked to cover his black leotard, silk and chicken-wire wings and a headdress that would have looked more at home hanging off the scratch and dent clearance rack at the Semeopolis Discount HolloWeen Supply.

The rubber chicken foot novelty slippers did not make his costume any more convincing, swinging above Edward's head as Roy miserably straddled a plaster bust of the mythical Eros, god of wine, sex and prelubricated condoms.

It was the _beak_ , however, that pushed the audience over the edge. Roy responded to the catcalls and whoops by striking a dignified pose, slicking down his unruly crest of feathers back from his forehead.

Clearing his throat dramatically, Ed continued his monologue:

 _I pondered not alone, it seemed—a Phantom from some eldritch dream_

 _Was perched upon the bust of Eros just above my study door_

 _An ebon raven's form it took—a Demon from some moldered book_

 _A winged fiend—some Prince of Hell-a-conjured by forgotten lore?_

 _Had my frustrated fapping called this creature from Damnation's shore?_

 _Quoth the Demon—"_

Roy's wings stretched out and one long, taloned finger pointed directly at Edward's crotch. Then he tapped the beak strapped to his forehead. _"I'VE GOT MORE!"_ Winking at the men in the front row, Roy preened the feathers of his chest with his clawed gloves. "Seriously. Why sit there in the dark jerking off like that when I'm around? I mean, LOOK AT THIS PECKER! We're talking _your_ parakeet versus _my_ toucan here!" Roy tugged off the headdress and pretended to polish the beak with a slow, erotic gesture that left little to the imagination. "That's what happens when you rub one off in an old library—either you'll hit an alchemy book and turn your dick into a doorknob or you'll accidentally fire your weapon on some old grimoire and conjure up something out of Sebastian Michaelis' wet dreams…" He paused, considered his words and shuddered. "And Sebastian? Whoever— _whatever—_ is slithering around in your wet dreams, I _don't_ want to know about it."

From the wings, Mori Haninozuka grimly ran his index finger across his throat in a slashing motion. Ed gulped, being pretty damn certain it wasn't Roy's adlibbing Mori wanted to cut, but his carotid arteries. "Cut the crap, Roy," he growled under his breath before striking a dramatic pose at center stage for their dialogue:

 _"'Phantom!" I cried. 'Thing of Evil!_

 _"Nicely hung. Part crow, part Devil. Conjured by your anguished lust_

 _To taste the sin you hunger for."_

 _"Should I yield my virgin nethers to this Fiend with ebon feathers—"_

 _"Not to mention whips and leathers—oh! The thrills I have in store!_

 _Poet mine, I claim you now—your flesh and sole forevermore—"_

 _"Quoth the Demon-"_

Roy leaped from his perch, wings outstretched, knowing that the flight harness under his feathered tights would prevent him from breaking his neck.

In theory.

Unfortunately, Alex Armstrong, who was manning the flying rig, was so undone by emotion he was busy blowing his nose and mopping up his tears, forgetting his cue…

It was like being hit by a Mack truck covered in wire and rubber chicken feet and a half a ton of sweaty feathers. Ed was knocked on his ass—into the third row, flying like a pin on the lanes of the Bishonia All-Night Bowl-A-Rama.

Roy hung upside down, chicken feet flailing. "Ed!" he groaned. "I think I broke my pecker!"

"Which one?" Ed shouted as he crawled to his feet.

"The big one!"

"The big one? That damn crow helmet is rented!"

"ED! You son of a-"

Hauling Roy upright, Ed borrowed a pocket knife from a stage hand and cut his lover down. "Ouch!" Roy landed painfully on his rump. "You better kiss it and make it better, Ed!" he threatened.

"Later. I gotta finish this piece of literary cat litter so we can get the hell out of here." Ed reached inside his jacket to reveal a large wooden stake. _Ahem."_

" _Thus the sinful pact was made and by the Demon I was laid_

 _A splendid wreckage here was made—the pillows torn, the sheets untucked_

 _I turned the tables—for, you see-I'm paid to hunt for such as he_

 _By feigning my virginity I lure them in—and bless my luck_

 _That's fifteen demons I have slain this week alone to make a buck_

 _They want my soul, they get my hole and when I've had my fill of fuck-_

 _Quoth the Demon?"_

"I GOT PLUCKED!"

There was a loud sob from the wings as Alex Armstrong melted into a puddle of emotional goo.

Mori glanced at his cousin Honey, who was hugging his stuffed bunny and wiping cake crumbs off his chin. "Hmmm?"

Honey jumped up and down, squealing with delight. "Can you make him fly again, Mori?"

Kyoya Otori glanced at his cell phone. "Pledges are through the roof, Mori. I think this calls for an encore…"

As the lovers limped back stage, Mori Haninozuka crooked his finger towards Roy Mustang. Beside him, Kyoya Otori whispered some astronomical figures while Honey squirmed and giggled. "Hold that thought, gentlemen," Ed heard Roy say before the Flame Alchemist hurried back to his side. "Ed—I'll meet you in the car in about fifteen minutes…"

"Quick, hit the gas and get us out of here!" Roy dove through the back door and ducked behind the seats.

"What the hell-? Where's the rest of your costume?"

"Shut up and _drive_ , goddamn it! No! Not home—head east….head for the border."

Ed's eyes went wide. "You mean…we're crossing the border of Yurislavia?"

"Hawkeye and Olivier will let me hide out until the heat blows over."

"You didn't-aw, hell! Did you do anything to that Honey brat?"

"Gave him my Starfucks card. Told Armstrong to get the kid out of the way and stuff him full of cake pops and Fappuchino and then send him to Kyoya's whacked out on sugar and caffeine. That's revenge enough for making us act like assholes on TV."

They drove on in silence until Ed couldn't stand it anymore. "What about Mori?"

"He's at the hospital, having the upper part of my costume removed from his rectum."

"You mean…?"

"I gave him the bird… _literally."_

Ed pulled over and stopped, motioning Roy to climb into the front seat. Hooking his arm around his lover, Ed gave Roy a smooch and fondled his feathered crotch. "Love you, you crazy bastard."

"Love you too. C'mon….let's _pluck!"_

 _"In THAT outfit? NEVERMORE!"_

THE END


End file.
